


Brothers

by Evian_99



Series: Bad Luck Days [2]
Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Assassination Plot(s), Brotherly Bonding, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Hallucinations, Louis is thrown into his own dungeons, Mistaken Identity, Rebellion, Sleepwalking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:27:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27577181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evian_99/pseuds/Evian_99
Summary: Following a disastrous second sleepwalking episode, Louis can only for so long postpone dealing with its aftermath. Thankfully, his brother has his back, even though he feels like he doesn’t deserve that after how harsh he’s been on Philippe.He feels very much out of his depth as he tries to offer Philippe a white flag. He will gladly deal with all the bull his courtiers can deal him and more if only it means they can make a fresh start. He isn’t sure he can survive if his brother finally does decide to burn their last bridges. Something that amongst troubling news of assassination plots and cries for rebellion would be disastrous.
Relationships: Louis XIV & Alexandre Bontemps (Versailles 2015), Louis XIV & Philippe d’Orléans | Monsieur (Versailles 2015)
Series: Bad Luck Days [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1965262
Comments: 12
Kudos: 6





	1. An Unfortunate Case of Mistaken Identity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During his second sleepwalking episode, Louis dwells alone in the inky blackness of the abandoned corridors of Versailles. A palace guard, still new to his job, and his colleague mistake the king for an intruder and bring him none too gently to the dungeons.
> 
> Sufficient to say, he is not pleased. However, he has decidedly bigger problems to worry about such as the fact that he isn’t alone in the cell.

The swirls are back. They’re begging him to come closer, to touch them only to his great vexation jump just out of reach. Louis can do nought but to follow them, despite a voice screaming in his head that these swirls equal bad. The young king finds himself simply enchanted by their beauty and beyond curious as to where they plan on leading him now.

So immersed in the bright vision he is, that he doesn’t even notice someone calling out to him. Louis only goes forward, chasing the golden swirls further and further into the dark corridors.

Miquel doesn’t know what to think. The man in front of them is either out of his mind, or completely drunk. Possibly both. Whatever the case, though, the person has somehow found his way into the hidden corridors leading to the king’s bedroom. Strictly forbidden grounds for unauthorised people.

They were more than clear on that during his training.

The young guard leans over to his colleague. ‘Noell, should we… take him in?’

‘Let us question him first. Might be some stupid noble that got lost escaping his mistress’ bed chambers’, the other grunts. He then approaches the sleepwalking man and taps him roughly on the shoulder.

The trespasser doesn’t turn. In fact, he doesn’t seem to have noticed the two guards at all. Humming some sort of unrecognisable melody, he starts to wander away from them, complete and utterly unbothered.

Noell acts promptly and places his hand firmly on the man’s shoulders, simultaneously turning him around and keeping him from walking away. ‘Monsieur?’ he asks, but he isn’t granted with a response. 

‘Alright, enough is enough, lad. You are coming with us to the dungeons where you can sleep this off.’ Looking rather annoyed by the prospect of walking all the way over to the dank dungeons, the older guard continues: ‘Tomorrow morning you will be questioned by Marchal.’

The stranger doesn’t react, but by now Miquel hadn’t truly expected him to do so. The march to the dungeons itself is uneventful. Their charge seems happy enough to be led there, humming the same infernal melody over and over.

Pushing him into his cell goes none too gently. They give him a proper push, making him smack painfully onto the cobbles. It does wonders in waking him feel up, but it is clear from his swaying body that the disorientation hasn’t dissipated yet.

‘Who of us will inform Marchal?’ Miquel asks as they leave the dungeons in a hurry. Even though he won’t admit it, he feels rather claustrophobic in the dark prison. Even on the good side of the bars—that is the side that allows him to walk away without breaking through steel first—he feels discomforted.

There is an aura in this place that feels evil.

Though he would admit that the tortured screams of the prisoners don’t help much in brightening up the place.

This time, Bontemps isn’t sure what it is that awakens him. His liege’s suite is quiet, the waxing crescent moon doesn’t put much illumination through the heavy velvet drapes in front of the window, so the light can’t have been the cause.

Instinctively he glances over to the bed where he sees severely tousled blankets. The upper cover has nearly fully slipped to the floor, but the ones below don’t fare much better. Getting up from his cot, Bontemps takes care to not make a peep as he walks over.

Expecting to find Louis hidden somewhere inside the mess of blankets, he’s startled to find him gone.

He curses. Loudly. He really can’t catch a break, can he? The moment he gets his hands back on the king, he’s going to routinely tie him up on his bed. Else he’s sure to end up in an early grave.

Stalking to the door, the valet opens them on a crack. ‘I need one of you to get me Marchal’, he hisses. He gives them a heavy glare, not tolerating any further questions. Closing the doors, he starts to pace.

The man looks out of the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of his charge, but is ultimately unsuccessful. It is storming outside—something Louis has always hated. The door leading to the secret corridor away from the king’s bedchamber hasn’t been properly closed. He peeks into the corridor but can see nought but darkness.

Bontemps itches to go out and try to find his charge but knows it’s better to wait for the head of the guard. And thus, he tensely looks to the rumpled sheets, balling his fists in the agonising wait.

With scraped knees and hurting wrists, Louis has the most violent awakening in years. He groans, trying to get up and away, but too disoriented to even consider sitting upright. The ground tilts underneath him, reminiscent of a ship braving a summer storm.

He lays his fevered face against the cold cobbles, ignoring the thick layer of grime that touches his skin. In the darkness, he isn’t quite sure how long it takes before the ground doesn’t move anymore, but he’s sure it has taken a good while.

Shivering, he curls up in a corner flinching at the leering: ‘Hello there’ in his cell. His eyes snap over to voice, and he must squint to try make out a figure. 

The man that accompanies him here is big and muscular, with scars littering his arms and face. He misses an eye and has burn marks on his bare chest. ‘What is a pretty thing like you doing here?’

Taking that as his cue to properly take in his surroundings, he’s incensed to find he’s into a prison cell. He rushes to the bars, shouting for the guards to realise him. ‘I’m your king, I will not stand for such disrespect’, he bristles.

The sole guard just scoffs. ‘If you are the king of France, I’m the queen of England. Don’t make me laugh.’ He hits Louis’ knuckles with the grip of his sword, making the king flinch back and lick his wounds in his corner.

There are rats walking through their cell. He has never felt so dirty. Shivering from cold and fear, he slaps his cellmate in his face when the man has the audacity to touch him.

‘I believe you’, he leers, doing an awful job of making Louis feel at ease.

Raising his chin in a challenge, he sneers: ‘Do you now?’ He desperately prays to be rescued soon. With nowhere to run, Louis feels vulnerable and caged. He is only dressed in a thin linen gown, with nothing to defend himself with.

His cellmate inches closer to him, grabbing his wrist to prevent Louis from hitting him again. With his face nearly pressed against the other’s chest, the king tenses. He knows the guards won’t be helping him.

When Fabien Marchal marches into the king’s bedroom he stops short at seeing Bontemps’ grave expression. A feeling of apprehension rises within him, but he crushes it before it can overwhelm him. ‘Talk’, he demands.

‘I... am not sure what awoke me,’ the other starts, ‘but when I did, I discovered the king missing from his bed.’ He stares out of the window, as if hoping to find him between the pouring rain en blinding flashes.

Fabien inspects the room, looking for signs of struggle. ‘Did you notice anything strange? Signs of forced entry?’

Glancing over at the head of the guard, the valet answers: ‘The secret corridor was slightly ajar. Whether his majesty was alone or not, he must’ve gone out that way.’ Thinking, he adds: ‘There hasn’t been a struggle. I would’ve woken up at that.’

‘What was his state when he went to sleep? Could it be another bout of sleepwalking?’ If it is, he will personally see to it that the man will be tied to his bed from here on out.

Bontemps looks around to check whether no-one beside Fabien can overhear him. While everything that could affect the king’s security is freely shared between the two, there are aspects that are strictly confidential. Leaning forward, he whispers: ‘His majesty was exhausted when he returned to his chamber. He fell almost instantly asleep. The last time…’ 

The man purses his lips, looking intently at the rumpled sheets. ‘The last time, although exhausted, his sleep was much more restless.’

‘But it is possible—’

He nods. ‘It is. And if it is the case, I pray he hasn’t gone outside. The storm…’ he falls silent, letting whatever he was about to say trail off into nothingness.

Hours have passed and there is still no sign of the king. Fabien has steadily been expanding the search party by adding increasingly more guards, his stress levels rising with each second that passes. If they don’t make a breakthrough soon, he will have no choice but to sound the big alarm.

And that would be disadvantages for all parties involved.

At a loss, he knocks briskly on Philippe’s door, storming inside only a moment later. It is a small mercy that the man is alone.

Louis’ brother startles awake. One look at Fabien’s face and he is instantly alert, throwing his blankets from his body and scrambling out of his bed. ‘Louis?’ he asks, pulling on a robe and grabbing his sword.

The head of the guard nods. ‘He has vanished from his bed and we cannot find him anywhere’, his stilted response is.

Bontemps is just a few paces behind. The man looks wrecked with worry, making a deep dread settle within Philippe. For all the two brothers might have clashed and squabble these past weeks, he can’t bear the thought of losing him.

Seeing Bontemps having to visibly steel himself, doesn’t make that feeling of dread any smaller. ‘I fear it is time to sound the big alarm and put the palace in lock down.’

‘Can’t we do that without alerting the nobles?’ Philippe injects. ‘The last incident might have gone under the radar, but with such an alarm finding my brother will be the least of our worries. The fallout will be nightmarish.’ There’s enough unease in France to last them all a lifetime.

‘Then what do you propose?’ Fabien asks, looking frustrated and at a loss.

Swallowing, the man straightens his back. ‘What parts of the palace have been searched?’ Considering the answers, a sudden idea pops in mind: ‘What if after leaving his bedroom, he was picked up by someone? By the sounds of it, the only places we haven’t searched yet are the dungeons and all the private bed chambers.’

‘If we would conduct a search through all the bedrooms, however, the nobility will be notified that something is amiss.’

‘But we don’t have to tell them that my brother is missing.’ A mischievous grin appears on Philippe’s lips. ‘We can also tell them that we have received intelligence of an assassin having infiltrated the palace. That will explain why no-one can see the king.’

Fabien shrugs. It is as good a plan as any.

Being caged into a prisoner’s arms in a dirty cell wasn’t how Louis expected to spend his night. With his dignity thoroughly dead and buried, he can’t deny the benefits of being held like a doll. The muscular man is surprisingly gentle in his hold, though the sniffing of his neck is something he could’ve gone without. Most importantly, the man radiates heat and in his flimsy garments that is a Godsend. 

There has been a lot of commotion at the entrance, resulting in guards being pulled from guarding the cells. Dimly, he wonders if they’ve discovered that he’s missing which would both increase as decrease his chances for a speedy release.

It isn’t as if anyone would expect the king to be stashed away in his own dungeons.

Annoyingly enough, it has made the prisoners rowdy. They are screaming and scheming, the awful ruckus not very beneficial to get some rest. For if he could choose one thing: it would be to fall asleep and ignore that this nightmare ever happened. 

Alas, it seems that it is very much not his day.

Eventually, despite the noise Louis finds himself slowly falling asleep. He tries to fight it. To stay alert, knowing that doing so in the arms of one of his prisoners is suicide.

The exhaustion of the week proves too much.

Feeling very much disgruntled by being forced to stay in the dungeons when a manhunt for the king is taking place, Manuel forces himself to make his rounds. It is obvious that the prisoners have noticed something amiss. They’re bloodhounds like that.

‘Silence!’ he shouts at one particularly rowdy cell, knocking his sword against the bars. ‘If you must kill each other please do so quietly.’ Continuing, he narrowly avoids stepping on a rat. Manuel wrinkles his nose; the stench is potent enough to make him gag.

He repeats his message at every cell, and unsurprisingly it isn’t at all effective. Which is why when he passes a quiet cell, he stops in surprise. Inside he can see two figures leaning against a mossy wall. 

‘Why don’t you run along, little guard?’ the biggest of the two taunts. He raises a meaty hand to lightly grip the smaller man’s throat. ‘And maybe you’ll find your precious king alive this morning.’

Manuel grits his teeth. ‘What do you know of the king?’

The prisoner shrugs. ‘Enough to know that his wretched minions are searching in entirely the wrong place, and too little to warrant further questioning.’

Narrowing his eyes, Manuel glares at the man and freezes when the smaller one makes a sound. Looking closer, he realises that he cannot remember him to have ever been down here before. It is the ring on the man’s hand that accelerates his heartbeat from fear.

Smirking, the prisoner says: ‘Surely you realise my utter surprise when two of you came and threw this man into my humble abode.’ His smirk widens. ‘And my deep amusement when none of you believed him.’

‘You—’ Manuel glares. For once glad to be the one with the keys, he goes to open the cell with a raised sword.

That is when the prisoner tightens his grip around Louis’ neck. It is enough to rouse the king, but the guard can see that the man is very much out of it. ‘You are going to listen very carefully to my instructions if you don’t want him to die.’

Going over his chances against an unarmed prisoner, the guard feigns defeat. ‘Then speak’, he says, hoping he sounds more confident than he feels.

‘You are going to put that sword down, give me the keys and only when I am safely out of this cursed place, I will release my hold.’ He is smiling, his body language conveying just how cocky he is feeling.

Manuel slowly sinks into a crouch, keeping his eyes fixed on the prisoner before making a mad dash forward and putting his sword through the man’s throat. With shaking hands, he pulls the king from the other’s grasp, roughly pushing his liege out of the cell before slamming the bars back in place.

Louis groans when his body connects to the uneven stones. He is covered by blood and wrinkles his nose in distaste. ‘I suppose you have my thanks,’ he mutters, ‘Don’t think I can borrow that cloak of yours, huh?’

What unfolds thereafter feels like a fever dream. His duties have only ever taken place far from the court, in dank dungeons and freezing garden patrols. Never in a million years could he have imagined to be escorting his actual king through the top-secret corridors of Versailles.

When, after lowering Louis onto his bed, he is sent to find Monsieur Marchal he is trembling with excitement and adrenaline. He can’t wait to tell his wife about this!

Their search isn’t going very well. They aren’t making any progress and Philippe doesn’t know how to deal with it anymore. His mind has been circling back to their last parting two days ago. One should never part in anger, their mom would tell them, and now he wished he’d listened.

Deciding to circle back to his brother’s bedroom, Philippe is nearly run over by a frazzled guard. He only nearly manages to stay upright, asking: ‘What happened?’ Please let there be no additional incident, he prays.

His mouth falls open at what the man says. ‘You found him?’ Disbelief sounds in his voice. At the acknowledging nod of the guard, a weight seems to lift itself from his shoulders. ‘Thank the Lord.’

He follows the man to the room he was already heading towards. When he is let inside, he hastens to his brother’s prone body. ‘Send for his physician and get Marchal here this instant!’ he barks, before sitting down on the duvet.

Louis rouses when his weight sinks into the mattress. ‘Philippe?’ he shivers, looking uncharacteristically small. 

Smiling, Philippe brushes a stray lock of hair from his brother’s face. It has been a long while since he has seen this degree of vulnerability from him, and he relishes in the familiar feeling of how they used to be.

He misses that.

‘I’d really like it if these dreams stop now.’ Seeking physical reassurance, Louis entangles his hand with Philippe’s. Although they both know this peace won’t be able to last, that it is inevitable to deal with the aftermath of this disastrous debacle, they can pretend like this has been nothing more than a nightmarish vision.

At least for a little bit.


	2. Aftershocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After that disastrous second sleepwalking episode, Louis can only for so long postpone dealing with its aftermath. Thankfully, his brother has his back, even though he feels like he doesn’t deserve that after how harsh he’s been on Philippe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Instead of doing a series of connected one-shots, I’ve decided to bundle all my ideas in a bigger story. I hope you all will like it ^^

Louis is unfortunately granted only a few meagre hours of rest before his pesky courtiers are refusing to wait any longer. In that time, Bontemps has manhandled him into fresh clothes, and Claudine bandaged all the cuts and scrapes that litter his body. He knows Philippe won’t let him out of sight for a hot while—just like Marchal judging from the narrowed eyes and worried wrinkles on his forehead.

He can’t seem to find himself feeling anything other than grateful for that.

‘I very much detest this’, Louis mumbles under his breath to Philippe when he nods for Marchal to open his bedroom door. The king looks only marginally better than the four hours prior. Although clean from blood and dirt, his pallor is ghostly, and he realises full well that he won’t be able to fool anyone.

He will just have to glare at everyone to keep their mouths shut—something he is thankfully quite proficient at. Squeezing the bridge of his nose, he takes a last big breath before striding out with all the grace and confidence he can manage.

It will just have to be enough.

Thankful that his stormy gaze seems to deter most of the nobility gossiping in the hallways, he makes it all the way into the mirror room before he is halted. Philippe walks slightly behind him on his right, and although he resents the distance, he knows he has only himself to blame.

He gnashes his teeth before forcing his lips into a fake smile. ‘Count Alméras, how fortunate to see you could make it here.’

Thomassin Alméras is a tiny, squat man that likes to indulge in his wealth. While not as terrible as some of the other power-hungry vultures of his court, he is firmly on the list of people Louis doesn’t want to be bothered by when annoyed and tired.

And he is annoyed and tired.

Alméras’ smarmy smile is giving him the shivers. He sinks into a light courtesy, teetering on the edge of being disrespectful. It makes Louis raise an unimpressed eyebrow.

‘Your majesty,’ the man seems either unbothered or ignorant of his rising irritation, ‘I speak for all when I say that I am overjoyed seeing you safe. Such an eventful night it was! Such frightening rumours!’

Philippe, blessed be his soul, steps in. Nodding his head to the count, he smiles in indulgence. ‘Then rest easy knowing that the perpetrator has been apprehended thanks to the tireless work of France’s soldiers.’

‘Praise be’, Louis says with a smile, forcing Alméras to repeat and abandon whatever it was he meant to say.

And before he can push ahead to try again, Philippe once again cuts him off. ‘If you would excuse us, my lord, his majesty’s presence is urgently required for a military brief.’ He looks at Louis, motioning his arm in a polite gesture for Alméras to scram. ‘As you surely understand, yesterday’s attack was a grave breach in security.’

The count smiles tightly as he lowers his head in a nod. ‘Of course,’ he says, ‘Please, do not let me keep you.’

With that they are free to continue their way to Louis’ office. God is gracious and they make it without further interruptions, though not for lack of desire. Philippe, his countenance uncharacteristically grim and serious, forces the nobles to reconsider.

It’s a lovely sight.

A tension he didn’t realise had slipped into his shoulders eases as the heavy doors of his office are closed behind him. Inside, already waiting for him to make an appearance, is general Hugues Lemaître and a scribe. The two immediately rise as he walks inside, bowing neatly at the waist.

‘Your majesty,’ he says, ‘your highness, Marchal.’ Rising at the king’s gesture, Hugues intently looks the trio over. Still, he only speaks up once Louis has sat down and motioned for them to do the same. ‘If I may have permission to speak,’ he begins, ‘I would like to inform you that despite there not being an assassin in the palace—’

Louis fails to suppress his flinch, merely praying no-one picked up on it.

‘—there is enough unease amongst the people of France that an actual attack or rebellion would not shock me.’ The general sits with a perfectly straightened back, seemingly calm as a still pond, but Louis has known him long enough to see it for the mask it is.

He massages his temples, feeling a headache rapidly rise. Why not make this cursed day even more complicated? Leaning forward in his chair he clasps his hands together. ‘And what do you propose I do?’

It is a question not solely directed at his general, but Hugues does take the opportunity to propose the plan he’s no doubt been cooking up for a while. It’s a straightforward enough proposal, one he can easily send a few squadrons of soldiers towards, but instead of answering like he’d normally do, he decides to involve Philippe.

His surprise badly hidden, his brother makes a good, well-thought argument. Louis smiles, but inwardly he beats himself up. He really doesn’t deserve his brother’s kindness and skill. When has he become so blind to Philippe’s untapped potential?

As the discussion is ended by his decision made, Marchal finally steers the conversation to the elephant he can no longer ignore. ‘Despite there not being an actual assassin past night, general, there are strong grounds for suspicion that assassination plots are being forged.’

‘Was there not this dance scheduled this evening?’ Philippe quips.

Louis turns his head to face him, frowning in thought. ‘What are you planning?’

His brother smiles, looking much sure of his case. He even mirrors Louis’ pose as he says: ‘If there are nobles that have been plotting an assassination or coup of the sorts, past night’s disturbance will have made them cautious. However, they also know that our supposed ‘assassin’ has been apprehended.’

He leans back again, resting his hands relaxedly on his stomach. ‘If we play it right by spreading some rumours, we could lure them into a false sense of security—’

‘—have them make mistakes,’ Louis breathes, ‘That might just work.’ He looks out of the window into the courtyard before gazing back with upturned lips. ‘We will follow your plan, just tell us what you want us to do.’

Several hours later, Louis finds himself in his brother’s dressing room feeling rather reluctant to go attend the dance. The Chevalier is suspiciously absent, having left with a devious smile and a whispered promise in Philippe’s ear the moment he entered.

Immediately, he decided that he did not want to know, and instead would pretend he didn’t see anything.

‘Are you ready, brother?’ Philippe looks excited for his plan, and Louis can’t fault him for that. It is a really good one and thoroughly amusing for everyone involved except, maybe, him.

He really could go without the yammering of the nobility.

Massaging his temples to temper his headache, the king groans. ‘About as ready as one can be without wine.’ He fiercely wishes for it to be present but knows he can’t overindulge. If they want to make this a success, he will need all his wits to him.

Philippe’s hearty laughter is music to his ears. Louis finds himself smiling. He wants to be the source for his brother’s happiness again. ‘It will go swimmingly’, he’s being assured, and the king can only pray that the other is right.

A rebellion in the palace would be devastating.

When they walk to the ballroom the dance will be held in, Louis takes extra care to walk besides Philippe instead of in front like etiquette demands. If he’s surprised at the gesture, his brother doesn’t show it. Noticing the nobility are picking up on it, the king merely holds his head high and back straight.

Let them see they’re a united front.

After his customary welcome speech, Louis opens the ball. They’re both swarmed by ladies the moment the orchestra starts to play. One gown more extravagant than the other, he’s soon lost in a whirl of colourful fabrics. He smiles, jokes and flirts—reassuring all he talks to that everything is truly well and that there is no indication for it being anything other than a lone wolf.

Everyone condemns the actions with the same fervency, all outraged on his behalf. Some act it better than others, and a handful are genuine in their emotions. Louis knows he won’t get new intelligence out of these women.

After an hour or so the king finally sees room to excuse himself from the dance floor. Escaping to the side, he accepts a goblet of wine from a servant. There are small groups of nobles spread all along the walls, and Louis will have to make polite conversation with all of them.

His headache only grows.

Inwardly groaning when count Alméras catches his eye and motions for him to join them, Louis puts up a forceful smile. ‘Good evening,’ he greets when he’s near enough to talk, ‘I hope you are all enjoying yourselves?’

Fierce proponents for tax increases and military expenses, and a lady willing to go over bodies to gain a better position for herself. Alméras has surrounded himself with his inner circle, which is sure to form a big pain once they pass the usual empty flattery.

He feels too tired to deal with this.

Nevertheless, his mother has raised him well, and thus he amuses himself by making a bet against himself as to when they will come down to business. Seeing the nobility dance around the subject is one of the few sources of amusement he can find in these endless conversations.

Of course, his amusement doesn’t last.

He can see it in Alméras’ facial expression, knowing from the way the man ever so slightly leans forward that they’ve reached the point of doing business. ‘There was… quite the concerning rumour my dear friend Constantia overheard.’

Louis doesn’t divert his eyes from Alméras, ignoring the way the woman inches closer to him. Taking care to keep his expression impassive, the king asks: ‘Is that so?’ Not knowing what the man is gunning for is making him feel on edge.

He’s got a bad feeling about this.

‘It concerns an…’ he smacks his lips as if searching for the best phrasing, ‘accomplice.’

His lips tilt the slightest bit upward as Louis realises what’s going on. This is the perfect opportunity to make the count do the dirty work for him. With a genial smile, he says: ‘I assure you there was no indication whatsoever that the assassin operated in collaboration with someone.’

Then, leaning forward as if revealing a secret, he continues: ‘That isn’t to say there was no-one that ordered the hit.’ He looks around as if to ensure there are no curious ears listening in, despite knowing full well that such a thing is impossible in Versailles.

Especially if it concerns ‘secret’ information he’s divulging to courtiers.

The count has a greedy gleam in his eyes. Reading him is child’s play, his happiness about his lie working out so well is so badly hidden even a blind man could see it.

Waving his hand as if swatting an annoying fly away, Louis nods. ‘Pitifully enough for our would-be assassin is that both himself and his employer are incompetent fools.’ He even allows for Constantia to drape herself over him.

Turning his head so that he’s looking her in the eyes, he says with all the sell-assurance he can muster: ‘I am confident there will be no more to do with this affair.’ His act is almost complete as he turns his gaze back to the squat man that’s nearly vibrating with excitement.

Louis changes his facial expression so that he looks more thoughtful, and the tiniest sliver worried. ‘Or did you hear something that disproves our theory? I must know if that is the case.’

Alméras rapidly shakes his head. ‘No, your majesty, which was exactly what they were laughing about.’ There’s tension in his jaw as he realises that this could very well alert the king to his lie, but Louis pretends to not see it.

‘That reassures me,’ he says, before gently pushing Constantia back, ‘If you would excuse me.’

But they don’t. With him so close, the woman isn’t about to let her chance slip away. She’s smart about it, purring a sultry offer to dance in his ear. ‘To rejoice in the successful handling of that frightening situation.’

Louis can barely hide his grimace, knowing he cannot refuse her if he doesn’t want to be seen as discourteous. And so, left with no other option, he offers her his arm and sweeps her onto the dance floor—praying fervently that the chance to escape comes soon.

Said chance reveals itself in the form of Philippe, who’s happily twirling away with the Chevalier. Throughout the dance, he tries again and again to lock eyes with his brother, persevering until he succeeds. His cry for help is communicated wordlessly between them—courtesy of years of practice when they were kids—and it isn’t long before his brother smoothly excuses him from Constantia’s clutches.

Once more Louis finds himself reminded at just how much he doesn’t deserve the man.

Slipping outside to the balcony, he relishes in having a moment for himself. It’s well past midnight and he feels exhausted, barely suppressing a yawn. The chill air is nice against his flushed skin, making him want to stay here forever.

‘How did your conversation go?’ Philippe appears onto the balcony like a ghost, startling Louis. He comes bearing two goblets of wine, one of which he presses into the other’s hand.

‘Saw you got roped up into dancing with our most ambitious lady.’ He has the gall to look amused—having been a target of her charms himself, and therefore knowing intimately well how persistent she can be.

Louis grumbles a little, emptying the goblet in three big gulps. ‘It went just fine, thank you very much’, he says, gazing out into the gardens. ‘I have no doubt Alméras is spreading rumours already.’ He turns his head back at Philippe, wearing a proud smile. ‘Your plan worked well.’

Philippe ducks his head. In the light of the moon, Louis can swear he can see a light blush, though is unsure whether it’s from the alcohol or from his compliment. Nevertheless, he feels a large measure of satisfaction. His hopes at rebuilding their relationship have grown tremendously today, though he full well knows he has most of the work still cut out for him.

His brother is worth it.

‘It probably won’t be long before this party finally ends’, he continues. And indeed, the crowd inside has thinned considerably. As his brother nods in agreement, Louis feels a spike of apprehension at the thought of leaving for bed. He’s terrified at the prospect of another sleepwalking episode.

His emotions must’ve shown on his face as Philippe asks: ‘Is everything alright?’

Louis immediately nods, smiling too wide behind a mask of calm he has painstakingly fabricated. He feels regret at doing so, knowing he must show vulnerability in order to regain the trust he’s broken.

He is scared, but it feels childish to feel that way.

The spark in his brother’s eyes dims the slightest bit, making him feel even worse. As Philippe goes to wish him good night, Louis stays behind on the balcony. _Why does he have to mess up everything?_


End file.
